by Ash Krafton
On the pillow lay a folded piece of yellow parchment. Senza crossed the room with a whoop of delight, snatching up the letter with a trembling hand.
A choice—more of the same, or time for a change? I think you are growing stagnant. Would you like to go slumming?
Senza tapped the paper against her lips and smiled a smile she hadn’t worn in a very long time.
Up in her room, Senza sat on the tidy bed, holding Knell’s journal, closed upon her lap. She’d checked it three times in the last ten minutes, steeling herself to accept what she’d read. The Chelsea address had been crossed off, and a new address scrawled below it.
Senza had not been the one who wrote it.
She begged Mrs. Branson’s pardon, feigning a headache. The matron issued orders for bed rest and a bowl of broth, which the Roberts faithfully supplied. Once the house had quieted, the staff retreating to their quarters to await Branson’s return, Senza crept down the stairs, dressed in the plain dress, bags in hand.
She hailed a cab at the corner of the block and read off her destination, repeating herself because the driver wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. He was familiar with the sight of Mrs. Branson’s ward, and probably could not imagine what business she could possibly have in such a neighborhood.
Money trumped a conscience, as it always did. A handful of coins helped him change his mind and he drove her there without further protest.
She barely noted the streets, the familiar sights that had been her home for seven years. Truthfully, the last seven had eventually felt as long as the decades that had led up to them. She wouldn’t miss Chelsea. Not at all.
Journal in hand, she noted the other changes Knell had made. More accounts, foreign holdings. More money than she’d know how to spend. And the address—a public house, it seemed, if the colorful name was any indication.
Her suspicions were confirmed when the carriage took her to a mixed neighborhood in the East End, where homes of both poor and more comfortable Londoners spotted the same streets. The cab stopped in front of a corner inn, with a weathered painted sign over its door. The Iron Lion.
She paid the cabbie, who urged his horses off, a streak of unease thinning his usually-booming voice.
The tavern was moderately lit, with greasy glass lamps leaking yellowed light onto the crowded tables. Rowdy patrons, working men and weary women. The serving girl seemed to have made a target for hands and crude words. No place for a respectable young lady, traveling alone. Senza paused in the doorway, waiting for the barkeep to notice her.
And he immediately noticed her, without a doubt. Nearly tripped over a bench to get to her.
“You be wantin’ a table, miss?” He wiped his hands on his stained apron, leaving an oily smear.
“A room.” Her voice held more than a chill. It was cold enough for frost to grow on his ears.
He squinted at her. “Rooms cost money.”
“Only if they are clean and secure.” She pulled her purse from her waist, and pinched out several coins. Holding them up for his inspection, she stowed her purse in a different pocket to thwart the pickpockets. “Clean sheets, a fresh basin, and a hot meal. A decent one.”
He reached for the money, his eyes devouring the sight of it. She snapped it out of his grasp. “And privacy. Have you such a room for sale?”
“I do, miss.” He bobbed his head and backed off. “Through here, miss. Let me fetch your bags. Molly, up here—”
He grabbed her bags and hurried through the door at the side of the bar. Grateful to leave the prying eyes of the crowed tavern, she followed, the serving girl in their wake.
The room was just as he’d said. Threadbare, but clean. Orange blossoms decorated the faded and worn wall paper, and a hand-woven rug of rust-colored wool covered the floor near the bed. Free of drafts, and surprisingly quiet for all the ruckus in the tavern below. She tested the lock on the door. It held. She nodded at the bartender, who’d been twisting his stained apron in his hands, waiting on her approval.
He released a noisy breath and sent the girl into a flurry of activity. Molly fixed the bed and fetched clean water for the wash basin before disappearing again.
“I want fresh water always waiting.” Senza glanced out the small window, the haze of the street lamps like blurry orbs below. “You can leave the pitcher outside the door. Also, I require a newspaper every day. Is this room secure if I go out?”
“Yes, miss.” He fished a key off a ring tied to his belt and set it on the small table. “This side is private. Me and Molly, that’s me daughter—we sleep in the room across.”
Molly returned with a covered bowl and a cloth-wrapped bundle, setting it on the tiny table near the bed. “Stew, miss. And bread, still warm from the oven.”
For the first time, Senza noticed the girl, her ruddy eyes and scalded cheeks…and the determined cheer that spoke of true contentment. Molly seemed very proud to offer the wealthy stranger her very best.
The ability to find cheer in such harsh conditions spoke of tremendous strength. Senza thawed a bit, and lost some of the severity that had been lingering about her mouth.
Hearty aromas escaped in a fragrant steam from gaps in the bundle. It would be coarse bread, she knew, but the scent was no less sweet, evoking memories of large bright kitchens and the grandmother who insisted on kneading her own dough. “I’m sure it will be wonderful, Molly.”
Molly smiled a shy flash of relief and ducked out of the room. Senza thanked the tavern keep who left wearing a stunned look on his face. A decent, hard-working man, she surmised. He obviously didn’t hear thank you often in his line of work.
A meager meal alone in a Whitechapel pub. Certainly not the salon where she’d supped under guard only the night before.
She untucked the cloth, finding bread and a clean spoon within. Well. Life certainly was unpredictable, after all.
Senza ate quickly. The stew was heavily peppered, the bread on the salty side. Although the meal wasn’t quite to the standard to which she’d become accustomed, it was sturdy and of decent quality. She washed it down with a mug of watered wine the girl had brought up.
Stout stew, thick bread, yet she was still hollow. Unsatisfied. It wasn’t food she wanted.
She toyed with the locket a moment. It was time. She needed to feed for a different kind of hunger.
This meal, she knew, would have less ceremony than what she’d long endured with Mrs. Branson.
She hurried through the dirty streets, the poorest section along the docks. So different from the upper class London manors. Entire families lived in single rooms here. People moved in masses, consumed with work and the daily struggle to feed themselves and when that became too much for them, they found respite from their demons.
For some, it lay in the arms of a prostitute. For others, it lay in dingy den such as the one that stood before her—a dilapidated building, one of a seamless row of worn wooden shacks that was anything but abandoned.
Here, within its dank depths, men chased demons of their own.
They chased dragons.
The parchment slip scratched against her skin where she’d tucked in into her bodice. Tightening her woolen shawl around her shoulders, she drew a fortifying breath. She didn’t need to look at the address written upon it. She knew it was the right location.
These opium dens were a far cry from the decadent salons of high society. Dim, cloying, death and smoke. The exotic men that ran these parlors cared for none of the poor souls that languished within. All they wanted was their money. Bodies that pursued slow, dreamy deaths lay sprawled on low cots, soaked in their own filth.
The den masters eyed her when she walked in, her fine clothes, her cleanliness. It all translated into the clink of coins. That was the common language they spoke.
She slipped the master a pound note, careful not to touch his tarry fingers. “A back room, please.”
He bowed and led her deep into the hazy catacombs.
As the small man led her through
the maze of bodies, she reached out her hands and dragged them across each person, stealing a heartbeat from each. In their altered state, they wouldn’t notice, let alone protest. Each beat singed a hot line up her arm, thumping into her chest. The locket warmed to a searing glow as beat after beat engorged it.
Senza closed her eyes and hummed, so great was the buzz that flooded through her. Twenty heartbeats in the space of a few minutes. It left little room to breathe.
Surrounded by death and slow decay…yet she’d never felt more alive.
In the far back corner, the man stopped in front of a door. He pulled it open, revealing a worn room. Hanging lanterns cast sleepy glows upon the velvet settees arranged within. A pedestal oil lamp stood next to one of the couches. He motioned with a hand, indicating she should sit.
She brushed off the cleaned-looking couch and spread out her thick shawl, settling down and reclining, tucking her feet under her skirts.
He selected a reed and held the tip to one of the lantern flames. Carefully, he carried the tiny glow to the lamp by the couch, tethering the sullen flame to its wick. A long metal pipe, a slender tube of brass, lay atop a low rectangular table next to a painted clay pot. Opening the pot, he spooned some of its contents into the bowl of the pipe, packing it with his thumb as he turned toward her.
He placed the pipe in her hand, motioning to her to lay back on the pillow. As she did, he held the bowl of the pipe over the orange flame. Fragrant smoke drifted low and lazily, catching the light and cascading itself into golden beams.
“I wish not to be disturbed,” she said
“Understood, madam.” He slipped out, closing the door behind him.
She lowered the pipe to the floor and fanned the smoke away. Repulsive habit, in any form.
However, she was sated, as if after a sumptuous feast, full of throbbing beats. As wretched as those souls had been, their heartbeats were pure, full of force and fury. She’d fill her locket to brimming before she quit this den. But for now…
Right now, she’d have a nap. Opium dreams weren’t the only to be found here, even if she had to pretend she actually dreamt.
When she emerged, it was breaking day, the cloud-covered sun bright enough to make her squint. Her locket was full to brimming, a noticeable weight about her neck. She hurried from the den, adjusting her hat, looking out of place amongst the brown and the grey and the dun of the people that trudged their way to weary work.
Like a peacock amongst the quail.
This part of the city had an eerie feel about it. A light fog wound its way like pulled cotton through the streets, clinging to corners and strangling the lamp posts where they stood. The thick air moved like a slugging stream, a living entity that dragged its clammy fingers against her bare skin. The fog was the oldest resident in this part of town and would be here long after every other resident had turned to rag and bone.
And Senza would outlive the fog.
In the days that followed her arrival, she took frequent walks as was her custom, although they were definitely of a different caliber than her walks in Chelsea or Surrey. She did not stroll at leisure, pausing often to admire one trifle or another, simply glad to be free of the claws of death. Rather, her steps were as hurried as any of the others, rushing from one place to another, dreading to be caught after dark. The copper daylight was harsh in Whitechapel, bringing to glaring notice every smudge of soot, every hollow-eyed child.
In the evening, daylight failed faster in these dingy streets. The night time was just as harsh, despite the looming shadows. Wherever the streetlights illuminated, Senza could see the creeping decay, making the shadows seem preferable by comparison.
The crawling mists were often coated with thick smoke from the countless chimneys, giving an unnatural solidity to the air. A person could hide within that air, concealed from light and sight by the fog and the smoke and the cloak of night. It could render a man nigh invisible.
But sight was not the only sense that Senza had. As foggy and murky as the night was, it merely muffled sound. She could still hear.
This late at night, there were only the nefarious sort about, those who dealt in businesses best kept from daylight’s reprimand. Solitary figures who plodded along, trying to entice a passerby to pause…couples clinging in alcoves or alleys, their harsh breaths sounding anything but pleasurable. They all avoided the hazy circles of light that broke up the blackness of the streets. The streets appeared nearly empty, but they were far from it. Someone else was nearby, and that someone was following her.
Senza stopped, and looked around. No one close by. No one that seemed to be looking at her. But the shadows…oh, the shadows and the fog and the coal-black smoke made plenty of hiding places. Someone was here. They just didn’t want her to know.
She resumed her walk, ear turned to catch the sound. So hard to discern a direction; the fog didn’t swallow sounds completely, rather it muffled them, coated them, dragged them down to muted tones. Whoever followed her counted on the fog to dim what noise they couldn’t hide. And the rest…
The unseen person kept pace with her, matching his footfalls to mask his presence. She knew it was a he, because echoes never sounded larger and heavier than the original sound.
Senza stayed her steady course, pretending not to notice. Alarm began to spread like a raging fever through her, making her arms and legs tingle. Men who followed women in this neighborhood most likely were not polite company.
She had known any movement about Whitechapel, especially at night was a risk. Simply coming here had stripped her of the last vestiges of decorum and the security that society oft provided. These were streets, where denizens had no time or energy to waste on propriety because they were too busy trying to survive.
Here, there was no golden cage, offering no safety net should she fall from her vulnerable perch. Such was the precarious nature of absolute freedom.
Senza was no fighter. She had learned no more of self-defense in her first eighteen years than she had in the thirty that had followed. The only weapons she possessed were her wit, her intelligence, and her will to survive.
She smiled, tight and grim. Whoever followed was unaware of just how strong that will was, or the lengths to which she’d gone to avoid dying.
Tonight would be no different.
She set as her destination the street lamp on the far corner. Murmurs of voices rumbled ahead in the dark; perhaps a pub was nearby. She continued her easy pace to the gas lamp and then stopped, adjusting her shawl and peering down the empty streets.
The footsteps continued along after her own had stopped, growing closer. A silhouette slid along the damp wall. The shadow grew in stature as it neared, until it broke the circle of light to reveal a broad man in a heavy overcoat and a bowler hat. Murky light struck the object in his hand, glinting in the raggedy velvet night.
A walking stick with a metal knob on the head.
He swung it, casual-like, the glow making a silver streak in the air. “In need of assistance, miss?”
Senza reacted as if she’d just noticed him, feigning a tiny sound of surprise. “Oh, no sir. I’m fine, sir.”
“Yes, you do seem very fine.” He strutted a circle around her, keeping to the edge of the dim circle of light upon the ground. “Too fine to be without proper company.”
Those words, at their level best, grated against her nerves. Her tone dropped several degrees. “I’m in no need of company, sir.”
“A lady as handsome as you, and dressed so fine?” He leaned closer, leaving his gritty scent hanging in the air around her. Cigar smoke, cheap spirits, and hair tonic—terrible habits in a hasty disguise. “Perhaps you are waiting for your company to arrive. Or perhaps…you’re hoping for unexpected company to present itself.”
“I am sure I know what you are implying, sir.” The chill in her tone added a coating of ice to the last word. “Let me clarify my disposition. I do not seek company, sir, not yours and not that of any other. I bid you a good evening.”
Tilting his head, he smiled, the lamp light glinting on his teeth. He looked like a dog, one that could go from licking a hand in one moment to biting it in the next. “My, such manners. You ain’t from around here. Can’t mistake you for a common whore, now, can I?”
Her temper flared, and she was unable to restrain the indignant tone of her anger. “How dare—”
“There is only one reason why a woman walks these streets alone in the thick of night. I am in the business of knowing why. So you’ll be a good lass and tell me—who’re you working for?”
She drew herself up and looked directly into his glassy eyes, her jaw set. “I work for no one.”
“Oh, yes, you do. In this town, you do. And if you have no employer, then I present my services.” He swept an exaggerated bow, keeping his chin aloft so his eyes never left her. “Denton Strickland, at your refined service. A pleasure to meet you, Miss—”
She did not supply him with her name. “Charmed, I’m sure. Your services being what, exactly?”
“I specialize in keeping women alive.” He cocked his head. “Oh, yes, a tough job in these streets, where accidents happen on a nightly basis. Carriage strikes and muggings, and the odd unfortunate strangled in an alley—not that anyone would mistake you for a whore, my lady. But criminals, full of drink and the blindness of opium, they often mistake fine women for disposable whores.”
He slid his fingers under his lapels, smoothing his jacket out like a dandy in a custom-sewn suit. “That’s where I come in. You can feel as safe as you please to walk these scenic lanes, to take in a spot of night air and enjoy the loverly moon, unafraid that some low-life is waiting in a shadow, sharp knife in hand, ready to steal a bit of your company before slitting your throat. Me and my boys, we watch out for our girls, we do, and they stay breathing.”